


Fata Viam Inventient

by genagirl



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genagirl/pseuds/genagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guess who is loft sitting? Guess who doesn't know Jim yet? Guess who makes a rude appearance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fata Viam Inventient

Fata Viam Inventient - gena 

"Honey." Naomi's voice carried that unmistakable ring of "motherhood". It wasn't a tone she used often, but it was an effective one. 

"Mom!" Blair cringed. His own voice had that petulant whine he thought he'd rid himself of in 1975 when, at the age of 6, he'd been denied a trip to Albania on the grounds he wasn't strong enough to carry a backpack across Europe. 

"Sweetheart," Naomi started in and Blair knew he was about to be blessed with his mother's reasonable persona. He braced himself, knowing she had done her homework and all her arguments would wear down his resistance like water washes away stone. "It's only for two months and you need a place to stay." Well, that argument couldn't be rebutted. He did need a place to stay. Moving back to Cascade had had some unforeseen complications - his apartment blowing up the biggest of those. Who knew such a great deal on an old warehouse convert was because it was next door to a meth lab? So, technically homeless since not many people considered the floor in Kevin's laundry room a real address, Blair had to agree with his mother. 

"Blair, all I'm say is that you would not only be doing yourself a favor by watching Margaret's place but you'd be helping yourself as well." Naomi fired off the big guns, "please, honey - for me, too?" 

"All right," Blair agreed. "Tell Mag to leave the key over the door and I'll move my stuff in on Saturday." 

"Thank you, baby," Naomi gushed. "I have a feeling you won't regret this." Blair already regretted it but he didn't voice those feelings. He knew better. So with foreboding and one large suitcase, he parked his battered car outside 852 Prospect and made his way inside. The building had been another warehouse sometime in the past, but gratefully he saw no sign of it every having exploded. Mag's letter, had reached him on Friday, the New York postmark witness that she'd wasted no time in rushing to her daughter's side, and in it she'd left a list of do's and don'ts. Mag seemed really into the negative aspects of apartment dwelling. There were the usual things - no weapons, no bonfires, no farm animals under any circumstances. He wasn't suppose to over water the plants, or undertake major repairs. Nor was he to loan out the apartment key or invite in "undesirables". Blair found himself rather disappointed to find she hadn't included some kind of chart for measuring undesirability, but decided to muddle through that one on his own. He'd also been forbidden alcohol in the sacred abode, cigarettes were strictly banned as was Kool-Aid. Not that he would ever touch the stuff - Blair hated the tell-tale "grape ring" it left around his lips. And last of the commandments, and she'd written it in big letters, so Blair knew Mag meant it - was he to, under any circumstances, annoy the man living in #307. 

How he could possibly annoying another human being, Blair wasn't sure, but the underlying impression he got was - it could be a bad thing to make this guy angry. With this thought foremost in his mind, Blair climbed the stairs and made his way to #309. He'd just dropped his bag and reached for the key when he discovered the barrel of a very large gun being jammed into his kidney in a very un-neighborly way. Funny, the guys making meth had never treated him so rudely. "Freeze, scumbag." 

"Freeze, scumbag? TV Land doin' that whole Starsky and Hutch marathon again?" He knew, as soon as the words left his mouth, they were a mistake. The way he was slammed, face first, into the solid door only served to reinforce this impression. "Okay! Okay, violence is so not my bag." 

"Glad to hear it," the man growled in his ear. "Now I only have one form to fill out and the Breaking & Entering paperwork is so much more fun than the Had-to-Beat-the-Shit-out-of-a Creep form." 

"Breaking and entering? What the hell are you talking about?" Blair demanded. He tried for righteous indignation but with the doorknob drilling a hole through the family jewels and threatening to pop out his backside, he feared it sounded only high pitched and rather excited. 

"I'm talking about robbing Mrs. McGuffin's apartment while she's gone." Something cold and familiar clamped around his wrist. Handcuffs. Bad memories washed over Blair, handcuffs had always heralded disaster for him. Hadn't he been handcuffed the time Rachel Potter's father came home from work early when they were studying anatomy? And wasn't he acting the part of "Light-fingers Sandburg" when the alarm when off at Wonder Burger with him and John Hughes doing a little role playing in the meat locker? No, handcuffs were not a favorite fantasy. "You have the right to remain silent....." The powerful hands spun him around so that Blair found himself facing - a chest. But not just any chest. As chests went, this one had all the earmarks of greatness. It was so impressive Blair had the urge to add some teeth marks to the earmarks. 

Wide, wide enough to snuggle into on a cold winter's evening and not surface 'til spring, the chest beckoned. Small nipples could clearly be seen beneath the tight gray t-shirt currently stretched across that sculpted masterpiece and Blair felt sure the Geneva Convention or the Treaty of Versailles or some thing like that had set down strict guidelines on what cops could use to force a confession from a criminal. Not that he was a criminal, unless confessing to a crime would get him a life sentence on the chest. Would this guy buy him as the man who offed Jimmy Hoffa? "Key," Blair murmured. 

".....if you give up the right to an attor....key?" the voice halted, slightly confused. "Damn. Okay, I have to start over. You have the......" 

Blair used his last brain cell, the one immune to police intimidation and gray t-shirts and said, "Mag left the key. I have a letter from her." He raised his eyes, and promptly forgot all about his new residence, world problems and how to breathe. While the man's chest might have compared to a Mack truck for sheer strength, and impressive size, his face had the elegant, classic beauty of an exotic sports car - a Ferrari, a Alpha Romero - a Jaguar. Blair had the urge to take him out for a test drive right then and there, but the shocked expression, complete with mouth gaping open and eyes slightly unfocused proved rather off putting. "Uh, problem?" 

"No," the man squeaked. "Uh, no," he repeated in a more manly tone. "Who are you," he finally demanded. 

"Blair, Blair Sandburg. I'd shake hands but as you can see," Blair awkwardly lifted his manacled wrists out to the side, "I'm kinda not able." The guy stared at him, clearly wanting more information so Blair launched into a brief, yet concise recitation of his life so far. "......so now at age 28 I'm back in Cascade to pursue a little more higher education and so stave off repaying my student loans for hopefully another decade. My doctoral dissertation is on a subject which, thankfully, there's little hope of my finding a suitable subject and so will prolong my research," he shrugged, "indefinitely." 

The sudden cessation of Sandburg's voice roused #307's occupant. He shook his head to clear it and looking almost as if it were against his will asked, "what's your subject?" 

"Sentinels," Blair said with glee. "I found, like, this obscure manuscript by Sir Richard Burton. It's a totally rambling account of a long, drunken night in South America and there's this one line in it where he mentions Sentinels." Blair gave a chuckle, practically vibrating with the thought of his own cunning plan. "He describes them as watchmen, special guardians who, because of a genetic advantage protect the tribe. Their senses are heightened beyond the normal range. They can see, hear, taste, smell and feel things you and I would never detect." 

"That's amazing," the man said. 

"Yes, isn't it." 

"I thought he was just an actor." 

Sandburg opened his mouth, then closed it and smiled. "No one is just an actor. What about you?" 

"Me?' The fellow seemed genuinely pleased by the question. "Well, no I'm not an actor but a lot of people tell me I look like that guy on Jag." 

"No," Blair said patiently, "I mean, you've got the looks and the handcuffs, so my first guess would have been porn star but I'm betting you're a cop." 

"Oh, yeah, I am. Detective James Ellison," he said. "I feel unbelievably drawn to you, Blair," Jim proclaimed and proceed to tell Blair his entire life story. It was surprisingly short. "I don't remember much of my childhood," Jim explained, "just that my father was an overbearing asshole who sent me to military school for a door ding in his 1965 Cobra. After that things are kind of fuzzy, I'm not sure how, but I became a Ranger and went on many, many covert ops. I don't remember any of those but if I did I couldn't tell you without having to kill you afterwards." Sandburg took a step back, pressing himself against the door of #309. "I can recall being shot down over the jungles of Peru and my entire team was killed." He paused, "or maybe I just buried them. Anyway, when I finally got back to Cascade I joined the police, and through a series of events which are kind of cloudy, I am now a detective with the Major Crime division." He stopped again, head tilted, "I think I had a goatee and an earring at some point as well as a wife, but," he shrugged, "I don't seem to have any of those now." 

Sandburg stared at him. He, too, felt an incredible bond with this weird, repressed detective. " I feel as though I was destined to meet you." 

"....to meet you," Jim said at the exact same moment. They stared at each other in shock before laughing. "That's........" 

"......weird!" Again they spoke in unison. Blair took a step forward. So did Ellison. Jim turned sideways, pacing off three big steps. So did Blair. 

"Oh my god!" They both exclaimed, though Blair alone understood the significance of their orchestrated syncopation. "Do you know what this means?" 

Jim, grinning, eyes dancing with delight, shook his head. "Not in the slightest, Chief. Is it good?" 

"I think it might be," Blair assured him. "Could you un-cuff me?" Jim gave him a dubious look, one which took in the long hair, the double earrings, the wild vest and torn jeans, but finally let him go. "Have you been extra touchy-feely lately?" 

Ellison recoiled as if struck. "No! What the hell kind of question is that, Sandburg? You get your jollies outta asking every guy you meet if he's been spankin' the monkey? What is this, another chapter on your dissertation - sexual habits of lonely men?" 

Now Blair recoiled. "That's not what I meant!" 

"It wasn't?" Jim blushed. "Oh, sorry. Uh, what did you mean?" 

Blair kept a wary eye on his companion as he explained. "I meant, has your sense of touch been off? Do things feel more extreme that they use to?" 

"Well, yeah," Ellison admitted, "I can't tell you the number of times I've dropped my gun in the passed three months. It's very embarrassing, especially if it happens while we're in the middle of a raid. The other detectives get really annoyed with me. But I just figured it was connected to the wacky problems I've been having with all my senses." 

"All you senses!" Sandburg really did begin to vibrate this time. "You mean all your senses are acting up?" 

"Yes." Jim's expression turned sad, he struggled manfully against the wash of unshed tears in his eyes. "I'm a freak, Sandburg. Oh, not like Mr. Albertson in #205, the things he does with his Lhasa apso," Ellison shuddered. "And not as bad as Kerry Simmons in the building across the street - she needs to get some blinds if she's going to wear those outfits. But my freakish nature sets me apart just as theirs do and I - I don't think I can take it any more." He pulled out his gun - and dropped it. 

"Jim," Blair kicked the weapon away, wincing when it went off and shot a hole in the wall. "You won't have to, Jim," he vowed. Sandburg placed both hands on the larger man's shoulders, pushing himself up onto his toes so they stood eye to eye, at least until he got a cramp in the arch of his left foot and had to drop back down to eye to neck level. "Jim, the uncanny bond we share, the urge we felt the moment we looked into each other's eyes, do you know what it means?" Jim blushed and mumbled something. "What?" Blair asked. 

"I said, it means I haven't had sex in three years, Sandburg!" 

"Oh, well," Blair grinned, "I think I can help you with that." Jim crushed him in a warm embrace but Blair pulled slightly away. "Jim, you're a sentinel and the bond between us means I'm your guide." 

"It does?" Ellison glowed with delight. He hugged his partner, swinging him off his feet. With Blair wrapped around him like an eel, the cop struggled with the door, finally getting it open. He dropped his keys into a basket placed conveniently next to the door and hung up his coat - all without disturbing the man sucking air from his lungs. "I've never felt like this before," Jim rasped. 

"Never?" 

"No. Well, not that I can remember anyway." They fell onto the couch, kissing, hands tearing clothes, legs entwined. For a long time the only sounds in the loft were those of lips on flesh. Breaking away from the delicious feast he'd been enjoying, Blair chanced to look down upon his new lover. Ellison stared straight up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes, his body rigid and while under normal circumstances that would be a good thing, the unresponsive nature of his lover was not. 

"Oh, man," Blair groaned, slapping himself on the forehead, "I forgot to warn him about the zoneouts!" He contemplated the sexy man lying motionless on the couch. Jim looked like and All You Can Fuck Buffet, but it wouldn't be nice to take advantage of him in this state. Too bad they weren't in Arkansas. So, taking a few minutes to make Ellison more comfortable, he woke him from the zoneout. 

Ellison sat up, shaking his head, and blinking. "What the hell happened?" He demanded. 

"If you concentrate on one sense to the exclusion of the others," Blair lectured, "you experience a zoneout." 

Ellison frowned. "And I'm naked because.......?" 

"Oh, well, it helps," Blair assured him. "Too many clothes impedes the flow of blood and makes the zoneout last even longer." He swooped in for a lingering kiss. 

"I hope one of those zoneouts doesn't happen at work," Jim whispered. "that could prove embarrassing." 

Sandburg reached beneath him, clutching the firm buttocks in both hands, "don't worry about it. I'll watch your back - side." 

"That's what I'm afraid of." 

Margaret McGuffin came back to dead plants and dust two inches thick. Her goldfish were floating belly up in a bowl of stagnant water and all her utilities had been cut off due to non-payment. And to top it off the cop next door, usually so quiet he seemed like an apparition, began making the most ungodly noises. She paid off her lease three days later and moved away, her last act a scathing phone call to Naomi Sandburg on the irresponsible nature of her son. Blair never heard a word of it, he wouldn't have heard a bomb drop. Jim made way too much noise when they made love for anyone to hear anything. Only in the dead of night, when they were both sweaty and sated, lying under the skylight in Jim's huge bed, did Blair every hear anything worth remembering. 

"I love you," Jim whispered and held him tight. 

The End


End file.
